


Tie A Knot In It And Hang On

by lettered



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Racism, Canon-Typical Sexism, Canon-Typical Violence, Classism, Gen, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Past Child Abuse, Racism, Racist Language, Sexism, Sexist Language, Slurs, fat shaming language, homophobic slur, mentions of abuse, mentions of suicidal ideation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-24
Updated: 2016-08-24
Packaged: 2018-08-10 08:20:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7837366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lettered/pseuds/lettered
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Season 1 from Daryl's point of view.  Includes a bit before the series, some of how the group ends up together, impressions of different people with a focus on Rick, Carol, Glenn, some Shane and Andrea's relationship with Amy.  Daryl doesn't deal well with losing Merle, etc.  Oh, and read the tags; Daryl has racist, sexist, and offensive thoughts and cusses a lot.</p><p>Honestly I really wanted to write a long gen fic with slices of life that had everyone interacting with everyone but this was what came out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tie A Knot In It And Hang On

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you snickfic and seraphcelene.

**Month one**

First time Daryl heard about the outbreak he was lit.

They were with a few of Merle’s friends in a rathole apartment in a podunk town outside Atlanta, smoking crystal Rufus had swiped from some dipshit college kid. 

Merle’s friends were assholes. Everyone Merle knew was an asshole, most likely because Merle himself was an asshole. 

Thing about Merle was, he liked people. He cussed at them and shat on them and was in general, a serious fucking tool, but he liked them. He needed them, sought them out, surrounded himself with the dregs of humanity—if only so he could be the loudest, meanest fucker in a room full of loud mean fuckers; that was Merle. 

Daryl didn’t really care for people either way. Usually when they lay around getting spun like this Daryl didn’t say much. Sat in the corner, took the pipe when passed, listened to Merle yap, and tried not to think of anything at all.

“People eating each other, man,” Rufus said. He’d been going on for a while about some disease that he’d seen on the news. “Fucked up shit.”

“Whatever, man,” said Merle.

“No, I’m serious,” said Rufus. “’S like a plague. You die. Then you come back and fucking eat people. I’m talking zombies and shit, like for real.”

Merle laughed. “The fuck? Man, you fucking tweaked already? Just started this shit.”

“It passes through biting, man,” Rufus said. “Nurses at Memorial, they didn’t know. Thought the fucker was dead, man, then it came to life and started chomping on them, got six of them, man. So they try to tranq it right, except the fucker won’t go down, you feel me? It was already dead, except it just kept chomping on them—”

“You listening to this fucker?” Merle said, passing the shit to Daryl.

Merle didn’t usually require an answer.

Daryl leaned in to take another hit.

*

**Month two**

The second month of the outbreak, people Daryl and Merle knew were getting sick. Derek said Rufus got it less than a week after he started telling them about it, but that was because Rufus was a dumb fuck who always stuck his nose in shit where it didn’t belong. But then Derek got it too, and Amber, and Ray, and that no good piece of shit Chuck Hansen.

On TV they said stay at home, and Merle said fuck that; if some dead son of a bitch wanted to gnaw on him it could damn well try. After Chuck, however, Merle stopped going out. Daryl told him they had to at least stock up on some food. They got into an argument about it, which ended with Daryl taking his crossbow and slamming the door on his way out. When he came back with a possum he discovered Merle had gone to a Publix and bought all the beans and bottled water the store had, not to mention a shit ton of Handi-Snacks.

The trailer home was Merle’s, technically. Daryl would never have bothered to get a place of his own. Most of the time before Merle got it, Daryl just rented shithole apartments, though for a while he’d worked at a garage and slept in the back. Lived in the woods nearly two months, once, when Merle had spent all their cash on blow and Daryl was too pissed at him to sleep on Merle’s girlfriend’s floor.

Merle was the kind of pinhead irresponsible enough to buy a place of his own but Daryl was the one who kept it up. Cut the weeds by the cinderblock steps, fixed the leak on the damn roof, rehung the screen door when Merle broke it by slamming it too hard. Refused to pick up the trash Merle threw out into the yard, but cared enough to wish it weren’t there.

Daryl didn’t want to care about the trailer. It was a fucking redneck dump and Merle shouldn’t’ve wasted the goddamn money, but it was theirs and no one could tell them what to do with it, and they had an address. They had a fucking mailbox. 

They even had neighbors—some nice Mexican couple with a grandma and two little girls. Merle had been in jail when they’d moved in, and they’d been real nice to Daryl. Asked him over for dinner, and he’d said he didn’t like enchiladas and they’d laughed at him—real friendly though, and then had him over anyway. And Daryl had said he could fix their window casement, which had been broken at the time, and they’d been real grateful and given him flan to take home. 

But Daryl wasn’t kidding himself; he didn’t think he was actually going to be friends with the Gonzales’s or Gutierrez’s or whatever their names were and then Merle got out and proved Daryl right. And maybe the Gonzales’s weren’t friendly after that because Merle was his huge fucking asshole self and said something really fucking racist to Carlos, if not worse, but it didn’t matter. Merle was Daryl’s brother and Daryl hated the fucking trailer; he hated the way the blinds got all twisted up and the way the goddamn yard was always fucking messy and the fucking mail and the fucking neighbors; Daryl wished there was a way he couldn’t bother with any of it.

So sitting on his ass in the trailer with nothing to do was pretty much the worst way to end the world Daryl could think of.

At least there were Handi-Snacks. Those were Daryl’s favorite.

*

**Month three**

Third month of the outbreak Daryl started packing. He’d been in the woods on his own enough to know what they’d need: basic camping shit, hunting gear, all the food, all the unexpected shit you never knew you needed—twine and lubricant and Ziploc fucking bags.

“Merle,” Daryl shouted. “Merle! Where the fuck’s the sunscreen?” 

Merle was the loud one, loved to hear himself talk, kept talking just to drown out other voices, just because he could. Daryl didn’t particularly want to hear himself. Didn’t have much to say. But Merle had taught him that when you did have something to contribute, you’d better holler if you wanted to be heard. No one would even know you were there if you weren’t yelling, least of all Merle. So Daryl yelled, “Merle! Where the fuck’d you put the sunscreen?” 

Daryl stomped into the kitchen, half expecting to find Merle hitting the rocks again, like he’d been doing all too much these past few days. Ever since they saw the Gonzales’s digging in their own front yard.

Merle had said they were burying valuables. _Dumb fucks think you bury treasure when shit gets tough_ , Merle had said. 

The Gonzales’s hadn’t been burying treasure. Daryl knew it. Merle knew it. Daryl just hoped it wasn’t one of the little girls.

Probably was though. Children were weak like that.

In the kitchen, Merle wasn’t getting high. He was filling up a cardboard box with food and laughing his ass off. “World’s ending, baby brother! And you want sunscreen?”

“And that flashlight,” said Daryl.

Merle thought this was hilarious. “Flesh rotting off your bones, boy! Dead men clawing out your eyes! And you afraid of the dark?”

“The fucking sunscreen,” said Daryl.

“’Fraid your lily-white ass gonna get sun-kissed?” Merle puckered up.

“I ain’t joking around!”

Merle’s kissy-face turned sour. “I ain’t either.”

“Why you always fucking _move_ shit?” Daryl hollered, stomping out.

This was how conversations usually went in the trailer, even here at the end of the world.

*

**Month four**

Fourth month of the outbreak Daryl killed his first walker. Fuckers just kept coming for him and Merle was out taking a piss, didn’t know the convenience store had been overrun. Daryl pushed a rack of potato chips and Cheetos onto one of the geeks, but another one had come up behind him. That was before Daryl had started carrying his knife and crossbow everywhere. Hit the geek on the head with a two liter bottle of Mountain Dew; it busted and the fucker just kept coming. Daryl had finally gotten back to the cash register, yanked it clean off the counter and smashed the geek’s head with it.

After that Daryl had known how to stop a walker. Killed three more outside of a Target for a can of chili. Merle killed six.

They’d never made it to Atlanta, and surviving the outskirts was fucking trying. They needed food, gas, shelter, sleep.

That was when they met Ed Peletier.

*

**Carol, first impressions**

They met Ed in a motel parking lot outside of town. Daryl had thought a motel was less likely to be overrun. No one wanted to stay; people wouldn’t be thinking of the kind of supplies available at a motel—the fact that they had to keep the candy and Coke machines stocked up, the fact that there’d be useful things like towels and soap and bath tubs to refill their water. 

‘Course, Daryl had to say it about ten times for Merle to even listen to him. Kept going to empty gas stations and picked-over convenience stores and Walmarts, which was exactly everybody else’s idea and why all them places were swarming with walkers. Wasn’t till the fourth day zig-zagging out of the Atlanta outskirts Merle finally stopped them at a motel.

Daryl was ransacking the storeroom behind the main office, after which he came out from around back with a pillow-case full of water bottles. That was when he saw Merle shooting the shit with the big motherfucker in the tank top. Merle was always talking to everyone, not because he was friendly really, but because he couldn’t keep his damn mouth shut. Even post-apocalypse.

Merle had that look on his face—slow, wheedling look, playing nice. It was the look he used to scam people and Daryl didn’t even know why it worked; maybe people fell for it because they didn’t think someone could act like such an asshole then actually prove to be one too. Anyway Merle was so busy laying it on thick with Tank Top he didn’t even see the cop.

That was okay. The cop didn’t see Daryl.

Dropping the pillowcase, Daryl had his crossbow over his shoulder in five seconds flat and aimed at the cop. “Don’t fucking move!” Daryl shouted.

Tank Top turned and Merle looked up.

“Who the fuck’s that?” Merle shouted. He glared at Tank Top. “You with a _cop_?”

The cop turned as well, slowly facing Daryl. He was big too, not as big as Merle or Tank Top but bigger than Daryl, taller. Dark hair, eyes. Big nose, like maybe it’d been busted up. Not in a uniform, but the insignia on his t-shirt and hat were enough. “Ed,” said the cop, voice a warning.

Merle laughed, gesturing at Tank Top. “You believe this fucker here?” he asked Daryl. “Fucker brings a cop!”

Merle hated cops, with good reason, except the problem with that was the world was over and there weren’t no cops anymore. Weren’t any lawyers or bankers or country club golfers neither, just live folks and dead folks and the ones soon to be dead.

Merle was always slow on the uptake, though.

“Don’t want no trouble,” said the cop. In a goddamn cop voice. One of those voices that said its owner desperately did want trouble, but was trying to get out of the dumbass situation he’d got himself into. Shouldn’t’ve gone wandering ‘round a parking lot at the end of the world if he didn’t wanna get took for all he was worth.

“You got gas?” Daryl asked.

“That’s just what we were here to get,” said the cop.

“Show us.”

The cop just stood there.

Daryl kept the crossbow trained on the cop. “Show us your car.”

“Ain’t got nothing to spare,” said Tank Top. Ed, the cop had called him.

“He weren’t asking you.” Merle wasn’t laughing anymore, but he had this little smirk. He’d said they should rob whoever they met next on the road, and here he was sensing Daryl was on board.

He weren't wrong. They might as well least see what Cop and Tank Top were hiding.

“Go ahead and shoot him,” said Ed. “Said we ain’t got nothing to give you.”

“Shut up, Ed,” said the cop.

They were definitely hiding something.

“Well, now.” Merle rubbed the side of his jaw in feigned thoughtfulness. “You saying _you’ll_ show us your car? What was your name again, _Ed_?”

“Ed,” the cop said again, heavy with warning. 

“Over here,” Ed said, jerking his head over to the side.

“Ed,” said the cop. “Don’t you fucking move.”

Ed was already turning, headed with Merle elsewhere in the parking lot.

“Best go with him,” Daryl told the cop. “Wouldn’t want my brother getting there with just your bud Ed, now would we?”

The cop bared his teeth, rage flaring in his eyes. Though he turned to follow Ed, Daryl could see the cop’s fingers itching—he was gonna try something, go for that gun on his hip any minute. At least the cop was smart enough to figure Daryl’d shoot him if he tried it, so slowly and a little sullenly the cop followed Ed across the parking lot.

They got up to two cars, each with a woman and child in it.

Daryl lowered his crossbow.

The cop pulled his gun.

“Shane!” said a woman’s voice, and a car door slammed.

“Chill out,” Daryl told the gun, which was pointed at him, two feet from his face.

Merle laughed. “Cop has claws!”

“Told you we didn’t have anything,” said Ed, which was obviously not what the cop thought. 

Cop thought the women and children were something—something to protect, something to hide so no one could hurt them. Ed either hadn’t thought about it or didn’t care. Maybe both, guy like Ed. He’d told them to shoot the cop when Cop’s wife and kid were sitting here in these cars.

The cop cocked the pistol, still two feet from Daryl’s face.

“What, you gonna shoot?” Daryl glanced over at the car. The woman who’d called out was tall and skinny, long dark hair curving slightly around her narrow frame. Kid had got out of the car too—a scrawny boy, weak and pale. No wonder Cop had wanted to protect them. Daryl looked back at Cop. “In front of your wife and kid?”

“Get back in the car, Lori,” said Cop.

“Shane, stop it,” said the woman.

“We don’t got anything,” said Ed.

“What you doing with a cop?” Merle asked Ed.

Daryl’s eyes flicked from the gun to Ed, who shrugged. “Pooling resources,” Ed said finally.

“Hey, that’s a good idea!” Merle turned to Daryl, grinning. “Pooling resources. What you think, little brother?”

“Dunno.” Daryl’s eyes flicked back to the gun in his face. “Looks like this cop’s got a gun, though. Could use another one a them.”

“Walk away,” said the cop. Shane, the woman had called him.

Marching on out, the woman put herself between the gun and Daryl. Lori, Shane had called her.

“Put the gun down,” Lori said, facing Shane with her arms crossed.

Merle gave a low whistle. “Got yourself a spitfire there.”

Shane put the gun down.

Daryl put his crossbow on his shoulder. “Siphoned gas off of some of them abandoned vehicles over there.” He jerked his head in the direction from which they’d come. 

Merle grinned like a cat that’d caught the canary. “We can even help you set up a campsite,” he said.

“What for?” said Ed.

“Well now.” Merle put his hands on his hips. “How you fixed for food?”

Shane looked pissed. “Are you fucking serious?” he said, whirling around to glare at Merle.

Merle’s grin widened. “Just pooling resources.”

Lori laid a hand on Shane’s arm. “It’s okay. We could use the help.”

Shane looked down at her hand, then over at the boy. “Yeah,” Shane said. “Okay.”

“Just for the night,” said Ed. “Tomorrow, we got to be on our own way.”

“You know what they say!” Merle said, clapping Ed on the back. “Tomorrow’s another day!”

The whole while—through the gun and the yelling and even the temporary detente—the other woman had stayed with the other kid in the car, hunkered down as though to fend themselves from fire.

*

**The RV crew**

Ed didn’t leave the next morning like he said he would and Merle didn’t steal anything. Maybe they didn’t like to admit it but Daryl was pretty sure they’d glommed on to the logic of the situation: numbers were better, at least for now. Even dumb cops, skinny bitches, and fat white trash were better, especially since at least the cop seemed to know his way around a gun and Ed seemed like the type who might. They didn’t have to like each other. Even Daryl, who didn’t like anyone, wouldn’t have voted to break up the party, not that he had a vote.

Next day they tried doing another run at a gas station, which was where they encountered another group. The people were about as useless as Shane and Ed’s group—old geezer, tall skinny white guy, some girls, a Chinaman—but they had an RV, which any idiot could see would be useful in this situation. 

Lori was the one to broker the alliance, such as it was.

She struck up a conversation with the old fart and the Chinaman, talking like it were a reasonable thing to do here in this shitfest of a world, asking names and where you froms and who you got with yous. 

Shane didn’t seem to like all the making nice. Daryl could tell it was because he didn’t trust no one, which Daryl thought was smart. Protecting his family. But Lori kept her hand on Shane’s arm and he gritted his teeth and kept quiet like a good dog. 

Meanwhile Merle muttered Daryl’s ear off about how they could raid the RV that night if they could lure everybody out, which was convenient because the plan kept Merle busy while the skinny bitch made good.

Throughout this confab Ed sat in his Cherokee yelling at his old lady. 

Eventually, Lori and the RV folk parted ways, Lori walking back toward the cars with her son in front of her and Shane behind her. “We’re going with them,” Lori announced, jerking her head at the RV folk and stalking past Merle and Daryl.

Merle grinned, turning to follow her with his eyes. “Where to, Mama?”

“Don’t call me Mama,” said Lori, going around to the passenger side of Ed’s car. She sounded pissed, but her knock on the window of the Cherokee’s passenger door was polite.

The door opened. Lori leaned down and a quiet conversation ensued. 

Daryl still hadn’t even seen that other woman’s face.

“We don’t want no trouble,” said Shane. 

Daryl turned back. Shane was up in Merle’s grill, hands on his hips.

“What trouble?” Merle said, spreading his hands. “Didn’t we give you gas? What, y’all fucking ingrates?”

“We’re gonna find higher ground.” Shane gestured at the highway. “You can come with us or go your own way, but you come with us, you don’t follow our rules . . .”

“You’ll what?” Merle taunted. He glanced over at Lori. “Maybe you could get Mama to teach me a few lessons. Seems to’ve taught y—”

Shane had the gun under Merle’s chin in under two seconds.

Daryl’s eyes flicked across the parking lot. “RV’s leaving,” he pointed out.

“Shane,” Lori said.

Daryl looked back at her. She’d stood up from the Cherokee, door closed. 

“You never talk about her again,” said Shane to Merle, voice low and savage. “I’ll blow your brains out.” Then he put his gun in his holster. Glanced at Lori, then at the boy. “Let’s get going,” he said, then headed for his car.

“Pig,” Merle grunted.

Ed unrolled his window. “You going with them?” he asked, nodding his head at Shane, Lori, and the boy.

“Just gonna see where they go,” said Merle.

Ed rolled up the window.

“You’re stupid,” Daryl told Merle.

“Why?” said Merle, heading over to the truck. “Wanna ditch them?”

“No.” Daryl followed. “Stop pissing off the cop.”

“Aww.” Merle got in the truck and Daryl did too. “Baby brother scared of some pussy copper?”

“Ain’t scared,” Daryl said. “In case you hadn’t noticed, his trigger discipline’s whack.”

Merle grunted. “’Trigger discipline.’ You queer?”

Daryl looked out the window.

Merle started up the truck.

*

**The quarry**

The caravan consisted of the RV, Shane’s old cruiser, Daryl’s truck with Merle’s bike in it, last of all Ed’s Cherokee. Too many vehicles, you ask Daryl. Should’ve consolidated. Shane’s car was shit, but per usual, no one asked.

They started heading up the hillside, which was smart—city hadn’t sprawled out that far, fewer residences and businesses, which meant fewer walkers. For the time being. That quarry that they found wasn’t a bad campsite. Good lake, might be able to get some fish; enough wilderness nearby, might be able to get some squirrels. 

They ended up staying close to a month. A few folks joined during that time—a Latino family, some black folks, couple of white folks, another family. For the most part, during this time, Merle played nice. Came on strong to that older blonde sister, but she was smart and didn’t give him the time of day. Merle was a dick when those two black folk joined, but that was Merle. He didn’t even actually believe most of that shit, just said it to get people’s goat, liked to see how they’d react, thought it was funny. Badge of courage for Merle, saying things that got people mad. 

Daryl mostly watched, which was something he was good at. Didn’t much like talking or making nice, was awkward if he tried. That first night around the campfire they’d been talking about weird shit, urban legends, made sense with the dead walking. Daryl’d said something about the chupacabra he’d seen and they’d all fucking laughed. Should’ve known. 

Anyway, it was important to keep an eye out. If they were gonna rob the camp they’d need to know how these people worked. Besides, if Merle had had the idea to scam these folks at least one of the camp had had to have that thought too, better to do it to them before it got done to Merle and him.

Daryl learned a lot by watching in that month. Some of it useful information, most of it not. Some of it might become useful, maybe. Never knew with people. 

*

**Skinny bitch**

Lori did not consider herself Shane’s woman and her son Carl was not Shane’s. She’d been married to another cop who was in a coma who had died back where they were from, some nice little Georgia town. She banged Shane on the regular but hid it from Carl, which was something Daryl didn’t care enough about to form an opinion on.

Lori didn’t talk a lot but people listened to her anyway. Bit of a queen bee in that way. Even that loud-mouth blonde followed Lori; perhaps it was something about the way Lori let everyone know exactly what she thought of everything without having to say much. Big eyes that one, and angry silences; somehow she guilted people into following her around. 

The boy, Carl, wasn’t exactly the most obedient little shit, but Lori was flat out nuts about him. Always watching him, looking after him, telling him not to do this or that but here, have the larger portion of beans, here take the first bath, here let me wash your shirt, no don’t touch that; it’s hot. Daryl had heard that was the way mothers should be, but he’d only read about it. And seen it in crows.

Aside from the way she was about the boy though, for the most part she didn’t bandy her power about. Seemed content to let Shane lead, which was an okay choice if you asked Daryl—not because Shane was perfect but because he was loud and bossy. People like that wanted to be in charge and it was best to let them, get out of their way.

*

**Cop**

Shane was a lot like Merle. Big, volatile, liked to hear himself talk, liked to think he was toughest. Not as good-humored as Merle, quite possibly because he didn’t find amusement in being cruel or sadistic. For that reason people were more likely to listen to Shane, and better that they did, too.

After those first couple days, he seemed to cool it a bit—resigned to the fact he was stuck with them there maybe, or maybe just less scared. Either way he stopped waving that glock about and got smart: Shane was the one to lay out their first rules. Sensible, smart rules: keep the fire low, prevent themselves from being seen. No loud music or yelling, prevent themselves from being heard. You see a walker, you take it out no questions asked. You see a stranger in the woods, come back and tell the group. Strangers approach the camp, you make sure they can be trusted.

Ed didn’t see how any strangers could be trusted. Merle agreed but didn’t say so, as he was still looking to swindle the whole camp and anyone unlucky enough to join in, a plan that Daryl was beginning to doubt Merle’s commitment to. Merle talked big, but even he could see this was the best things had been in a month. Wasn’t gonna jeopardize that. 

Shane wasn’t happier with any strangers joining than Ed was. All he cared about was that woman and her son—the sort of commitment Daryl had seen in movies but never witnessed in real life. Even with crows mothers were the ones who fed the babies. Rarely see a father in the wild do jackshit and never seen it in civilization; this was some epic shit right here. 

But Shane’s commitment to the skinny bitch and child was also why Shane allowed the new folks to join, all of them—Lori told him to. Lori wanted to set an example of—Daryl didn’t know—dignity or humanity or some shit, for Carl, and Shane wanted to set it too. Wanted to be the very best he could be for them even if it went against his instinct. Shane was the sort of man people respected, compared favorably to people like Daryl and Merle, the sort of man people wanted to be.

It rubbed Daryl the wrong way because Shane was a loudmouth dick, but it didn’t feel that bad being a part of something decent.

*

**The old fart**

Name was Dale. Owned the RV. Also liked to hear himself talk. Yammered something fierce, but not as bossy as Merle or Shane. Seemed to mostly want to come together, sing kumbaya, dopey shit. Wore a stupid hat.

*

**Tall and Skinny**

Jimbo used to be a mechanic. Lost his wife and kids to walkers. Little off his rocker, you asked Daryl. Guess losing your whole family would do that to you. Didn’t get in the way too much, was helpful. Sometimes Daryl wondered what Jim’d be like if he had his family—more like Shane or more like Ed? Most people were in between, though. Just there. Existing.

*

**Chinaman**

Daryl had assumed the Chinaman was mostly useless. Weren’t they good at math or some shit? Playing violins. Not that Daryl was racist, he knew people could do other things. Rice farming weren’t much use past apocalypse, however.

As it turned out, Chinaman could get things. Fucking Red in _Shawshank Redemption_ levels of smuggling shit out of Atlanta suburbs and stores: cans of soup, tuna, corn. Wasn’t always practical; once he brought back some powdered Jell-O. Dumb fucking thing you asked Daryl, but Chinaman said it was all he could find. 

Soft, that was the other thing Chinese people were. Chinaman seemed sorta that way, except he was the only one besides Daryl and Ed bringing home the bacon, as it were--Daryl with hunting and Ed with his stupid survivalist crap. Well anyway, it wasn’t like Chinese people were never tough, right? There were samurai. And ninjas. But that was the thing they said about those people, wasn’t it—they were slippery. Sneaky.

But then the Chinaman brought back this stupid doll for the little girl and Daryl stopped paying attention. Nothing to worry about--fucker was a fruitcake. He’d be the first to go.

*

**Blondies**

Andrea and Amy. Andrea was the older one. She’d do anything for the younger one but you ask Daryl, those two didn’t even know each other that well. Sounded like, from what Daryl could pick up, Andrea hadn’t even been around. Maybe Andrea was trying to make up for it. 

More people were like Merle than you’d expect. Not that Merle was trying to make up for anything really. Just got stuck with Daryl here at the end of the world, but who else was Daryl gonna get stuck to? No one else ever really been there except Merle, not that he’d been a doting brother. 

Anyway, Merle was such an asshole, you wouldn’t expect a nice lawyer lady from Florida’d be anything like him, or a good old boy Georgia cop to be like either one of them, but it was still the case. They were all loud, bossy, tough, had tempers, thought that they knew best.

Meanwhile Amy was relatively quiet. Did what her sister said. In a crowd didn’t offer her opinion. Sat a little back, listened to music till the battery wore out on her ipod or whatever thing it was. She was the nice one, gentle, kind to Carl and the other little girl, played with them even.

Maybe that was what having an older sibling like Andrea made you like: quieter, more observant, able to notice things. But it made you weaker, too. Always second, on the outskirts, often forgotten, your opinion rarely voiced and never heard, knowing there was someone else louder, stronger, tougher.

Not that Amy never bitched or moaned. Daryl’d overheard her with her sister; Amy was her own self, sure enough. But there was a drifting quality to someone like that, something spread thin and hard to pin down. Not that Amy wanted to be that way but Andrea was her point of contact for the rest of the world, a world Amy didn’t quite know what to do with, interact with, be with. Other people weren’t as familiar to Amy as her sister, and that shadow kept her safe.

Daryl had been tow-headed when he was born, or so his ma had said. Started turning dirty blond in his teen years. Now he was pushing forty it was finally turning dark.

*

**T-Dog**

His name was T-Dog for chrissake. Was gonna be a problem with Merle unless T manned up and dealt with the fact words were just words, man. ‘Course, Merle could’ve manned up and learned not to be a jackass but Daryl didn’t have any real confidence in that. Had more confidence in T-Dog, frankly, if only because he wasn’t Merle.

*

**Black lady**

Her name was Jacqui and she was smart, pretty and sharp. Also bound to be a problem with Merle, who couldn’t seem to decide whether he wanted to fuck her or insult her. Didn’t seem to understand you couldn’t do both. 

Unless you were married, Daryl supposed. Unless the bitch was cowardly and weak, couldn’t stand up for herself.

*

**Ed’s old lady**

Her name was named Carol. That was all Daryl got.

*

**Carol, second impressions**

Merle and Ed got on like a house on fire.

Ed was just the sort of asshole Merle always managed to pal around with in any shithole: stupid, selfish, cruel sense of humor. In another life Ed and Merle would’ve been spinning on crystal together and having themselves a night on the town. Wasn’t like that at the camp, as first of all the world had ended and second of all Ed was with his family. 

Merle wasn’t the sort to spend time with family men, even men as unconcerned about his family as Ed. Merle liked loners, drifters; those were people he could push around. Those were people who stood being pushed around, even liked it to an extent—nothing else connected them to Earth, nothing else made life interesting or worth living. Merle was grounded in a way other people weren’t, believed in life because he believed in pleasure, knew how to find it, how to get it, how to take it.

Daryl remembered that first time he’d seen Merle in the parking lot with Ed, Merle with his swindling smile on, and Daryl had wondered why anybody’d ever trust a bag of dicks like Merle. Well, that was the reason: when you were bored, he gave you a path. Even if it was a shit path, it made you feel tethered. When you were in his orbit you knew where to go. Around around around.

Ed was in Merle’s orbit too, until he wasn’t.

Daryl noticed it one afternoon about two weeks in, when they were out collecting firewood. Merle and Ed were usually thick as thieves out in the woods, but Ed wasn’t around and Merle didn’t appear to care. Merle did that sometimes—up and decided he didn’t like someone no more. Usually it happened when his dealers raised their prices, though once Merle did it to one of his girls for a stupid reason. That was one of Merle’s better girls too—even though she’d been the one to give him the clap. Clap wasn’t why Merle’d dropped her; he’d hated her new haircut.

Ed didn’t have enough hair to cut and Daryl knew Merle never would’ve noticed even if he had.

“What’s with Ed?” Daryl asked, leaning in to tug at some tangled brush that looked dry enough to burn.

Merle just grunted. “Peckerwood.”

When they got back to camp Ed was nowhere to be seen; neither was his wife and little girl. Cherokee was still there though. Daryl didn’t concern himself with it none—Merle was always making trouble, best to stay out of it. Had a couple squirrels to skin anyway.

That evening Ed’s woman and her daughter joined everyone else for dinner. Carol looked just the same, sweet and timid and polite, only Daryl caught sight of the bruises on her arm. Seeing him looking, she tugged down her sleeve.

Daryl tossed his plate aside. Wasn’t hungry anyway.

Next morning he found Merle. “You telling me you didn’t know about Ed?” Daryl said, feeling furious for some reason. The bruises were why Merle had dropped Ed; Daryl was sure of it. Should’ve been a good thing that Merle didn’t hold truck with wife-beaters; instead it pissed Daryl right the fuck off.

“Know what?” Merle laughed. “That he's a white trash cracker? Yeah, I knew.”

Daryl wanted to get up in Merle’s face, but Merle was bigger than him and proven on multiple occasions he could and would beat him down. “You know what I mean. About his wife.”

Merle grimaced. “How was I to know?”

“He’s the type!”

“What type?”

Man, Daryl felt like punching Merle right between the eyes. Fists clenched at his sides; he was pacing just to prevent it. “You know what I mean. Big, fat, dumb. You know. Just like . . .”

Merle let the silence build, the expression on his face twisted between cruelty and amusement. “Just like what, baby brother?” he said softly.

“Fuck you!”

“It upset you?” Merle smirked. “Ed smacking his ole lady around?”

“It don’t upset me; it . . . it _rankles_ me man, because you knew. You knew the day we met them, but what, you had to see it to believe it?”

Merle shrugged. “None of my business.”

“Yeah, it never was, was it.”

“None of your business either. What, you think I care? Punkass bitch smacking his wife? What I’d always tell you, boy? Look after your own damn self. Ain’t no one gonna do it for you.”

“Yeah, you always told me.”

“Aww. That too hard? What, want someone to look after you? Cheer up! Ain’t it just all atheists and fags were supposed to be left at the end of the world? Sure you could find some nice daddy, take care of your sweet sissy—”

“You and Ed deserve each other, man. Made sense, you were friends.” Daryl stalked off.

Merle called out after him. “I ain’t never beat no woman!”

“You let it happen,” Daryl muttered. He wanted to kill something. Where was one of them damn walkers when you wanted one—all up in your face till you got the desire to pound the flesh on something raw.

Man, Daryl didn’t even really care about Ed’s old lady. Made him mad is all, Merle acting like he had a high horse. Merle was the same as all the rest of them; everybody was the same. You hit or you got hit, beat or you got beat, take or you got taken and no matter how often Daryl planned on being the taker, he somehow always ended up getting took.

 _‘Cause you’re a pussy,_ Merle would’ve said.

Problem was, Merle was right. Daryl just kept seeing that gray ghost of a woman pulling her thin sleeve down over that bony bruised wrist, and he knew that Merle was right.

*

**Cop, second impressions**

Next day, Cop came stomping into the woods. “We got ourselves a situation,” Shane said.

Daryl had just lined up to shoot a rabbit, but of course it spooked upon Shane’s approach. “Fuck, you just lost us a stew!”

“You need to contain that brother of yours,” said Shane.

“Yeah, well.” Daryl slung his crossbow over his back. “Like the Bible says: fuck you.”

“He’s antagonizing Ed.”

“Where’s your brother?” Daryl stomped off. “Imma go tell him you’re antagonizing me.”

Shane followed. “This is serious.”

“Like a heart attack.”

“Listen up.” Shane grabbed his hand, but Daryl twisted away.

“Don’t fucking touch me, man.”

Then Shane was up in his face, backing Daryl up against a tree before Daryl could have much of a say about it. “I know your type,” Shane said.

“My type?” Daryl said, mostly pissed because he said the same thing to Merle yesterday.

“Yeah, your type.” Shane weren’t a bad-looking guy, but when he was eye to eye with you and furious, he got ugly. “You know how many guys like you I’ve put away?”

“Pfft. To play with?”

“I don’t trust you. You think I don’t know you’re planning to rob this camp?”

Daryl stopped looking for a way to bust out around Shane.

“Yeah,” said Shane. “I know. I know it all—that you’re using us for now, you and Merle. You plan to milk us for all we’re worth, and I bet your brother’s just pissed we ain’t got drugs to boost too; am I right?”

“This the part you tell me I’m inbred?”

Shane’s lip curled, but then suddenly he stepped away, giving Daryl space. “Nah,” he said, looking off into the woods for a moment, then swinging back around to Daryl. “I don’t care. Know what I do care about?”

“Hold on, let me think.”

“Lori, Carl, and those other people at that camp. Keeping them safe. If you and Merle stand in the way of that—I will come at you. I will.”

“What about Ed? Keeping him safe too? Like he keeps that old lady of his.”

Shane stared at him. “I’m gonna take care of that,” he said, after a long moment.

“What, you gonna say please?”

“I said I’m handling it.”

Daryl held Shane’s eyes for a moment, but after that dropped his gaze. He had no real desire to go up against Shane.

And he’d never heard someone say they’d stop someone like Ed. Not say it and mean it.

“Yeah, well,” Daryl said, starting to walk off again. “You ‘handle’ it however you like. Ain’t my business.”

“I got my eye on you,” Shane called out after him.

“Whatever,” said Daryl.

Here at the end of things every man should be out for himself, just like Merle always said they were and said that Daryl should be too. But instead there was Shane, who'd noticed Carol and said that he was handling it, and Daryl almost believed him.

*

**Rick, first impressions**

First thought Daryl had about Rick Grimes was that he was the motherfucker who’d left Merle on a roof to die and he should fucking pay for it. Fucker deserve to die and Daryl’d do it his self. With his bare hands.

But the problem was Merle was gone and Daryl could feel something inside himself twisting. Pulling. 

Sometimes he saw things other people didn’t. Like that chupacabra. This time Daryl could see this boat—just one lone boat tied to this dock. The water was dark and mostly still, just a slow even lap against the shore, rhythmic and low. The boat silent and empty. Rickety too. Only thing holding it there just that one rope—old. Hairy, the way worn rope gets. 

The knot was tied hard. Glued with the filth of ages, making the knot all one piece. The knot wasn’t untying—rope itself was what was coming apart. Weak due to weather, thready. And then a single gust came along; the rope strained and groaned, all frayed, and then—it snapped. 

Now there was just this boat in the water, slowly drifting away, dragging the rest of the rope through the water like a dead snake. Long trail of nothing.

Daryl could feel that rope inside of him, its frayed end, soft and sapped of all tensile strength, a feeling like hopelessness. Weakness. The only thing he could think to do was cast it out, cast that rope out as far as possible and hope it lassoed back around Merle. 

Instead it landed in his own empty stomach.

Daryl had to find him. 

“Just tell me where he is so’s I can go get ‘im,” Daryl said, his voice breaking.

“He’ll show you,” Lori said, but she said it to that punk, Rick Grimes, and not to Daryl. 

At first Daryl thought it a command from the queen. Like she wanted Merle to be found and was sending her henchmen after him. 

“Isn’t that right?” Lori said, but this part sounded angry, and after that she turned her back and went into the RV.

Then Daryl realized Lori was angry about Rick going, who knew why.

Rick Grimes deserved to die.

*

**In pieces**

Everything seemed to be happening in fragments. Shards of things cut into Daryl’s consciousness but he couldn’t feel them, make sense of them. After they entered his awareness they lay there in his empty chest, end of that frayed rope lying on top like a fucking sad tableau. He thought he should try to put the pieces together, make a picture of things, but he kept feeling that frayed rope in his chest, all tangled up.

Jesus. What was he gonna do without Merle? He couldn’t even rob these people himself.

As Daryl loaded up the cube van, he collected these shards:

Rick had a shiny badge. 

Rick was with Lori, which was fucking crazy. She just have a whole passel of these country cops lined up for her pussy, in love with her boy, and treating her like royalty?

The Chinaman was coming for some reason.

Shane fucking Walsh was a fucking cunthole shitpissing dumbass who needed to stop talking.

There was a bag of guns somewhere. Somewhere near where they left Merle. That was the real reason Rick was coming.

The real reason T-Dog was coming was guilt.

The real reason Chinaman was coming was because Rick asked. Didn’t make sense. Hell, was Chinaman with Rick too? Like Lori? Everyone lining up to fuck this bastard and he just fucking got here?

Carl, lily-white Lori’s son, was fucking crying due to him not wanting Rick to go. The fuck.

And then it came out the real reason Rick was coming was actually a walkie talkie, some promise to a dead guy. Made no sense, Jesus.

The truck started up and Daryl didn’t care. Kept thinking about that rope, which was sometimes just lying there but sometimes twisted unpleasantly, churning his guts. Then it’d flop down again and just be broken, its snapped end unpleasantly soft—like a blonde girl’s hair. Like those weeds that used to grow up near the cinder block steps to the trailer. Frayed and dry and useless.

Like a fuse, until it lighted up.

*

**Rick, second impressions**

Pieces didn’t start to slot into place till they found that broken window Merle’d slipped out of. Like that window was the picture Daryl had been missing and the glass on the floor were all those things that had been happening up till now.

On the roof where Rick-fucking-Grimes-that-punkass-bitch had left Merle, there were just the cuffs, a bloody hacksaw, and a severed hand. Seeing that hand made Daryl lose his mind. Pulled his bow on T-Dog, heard Rick cock the gun, point it right at his head, and all Daryl could think was, go ahead. Go ahead because there was nothing on that roof but a hand—a hand that had slapped him on the back of his head, ruffled his hair, landed heavily on his shoulder, squeezing. Now it lay there empty, not attached to nothing. 

Useless, like the rope inside Daryl.

Daryl lowered the crossbow, not on account of the gun but on account of the fact that he couldn’t even hold it up any more. Felt so loose inside, empty, tied to nothing; what was the point?

Few moments later Daryl found the track of blood, followed it along down to the kitchen where Merle had cauterized the wound, on to the window where Merle had broken out. Of course that was what he’d done. He’d thought he was alone, just like Daryl, and if Merle had ever taught him anything it was that no one would come for you. No one would look for you. No one would ever care for you; you had to do it for yourself.

Merle was looking out for Merle, and fuck him. Fuck him, because he was wrong; _Daryl had come_. 

“I’m gonna go get him,” Daryl said, then there was a hand on his chest.

Fucking _Rick_. “Daryl, wait.”

“Get your hands off me!” Daryl yelled. “You can’t stop me!”

“He’s family. I get that. I went through hell to find mine.” Rick’s voice was low and patient, and it occurred to Daryl suddenly that Rick was Lori’s dead husband. “I know exactly how you feel. He can’t get far with that injury. We could help you check a few blocks around, but only if we keep a level head.”

Then, for the first time since learning Merle was up on a roof somewhere, Daryl had a clear thought.

Level head. Daryl could do that. He was _good_ at that. 

This was what he was always telling Merle: don’t go off half-cocked, act sensible, don’t be an idiot. Merle was the one who shouted, didn’t listen to reason, made trouble with people, never had a plan.

“I could do that,” Daryl told Rick.

So Rick and the Chinaman started talking about plans.

When Merle used to say you had to look after your own damn self, he’d meant you had to be tough and mean, meaner and tougher than any other tough, mean bastards if you were to survive. But Daryl had known from the beginning that wasn’t how _he’d_ survive. He wasn’t tougher and meaner. Had tried to be, wanted to be, but wasn’t—was lily-livered, just like Merle always said, had a soft underbelly, cried too much. Too sensitive. A fucking faggot, Merle used to say.

But Daryl had other strengths. 

He was smart. Not book-smart, but observant. He noticed things. He saw things, and he could be patient. Was persistent too. Resilient. Didn’t give up. Wait all day if he needed to wait. Those were good things about Daryl, and Daryl knew them, difficult as it was to remember on occasion. Could listen, too. Knew how to follow directions. Even knew how to work with others—or at least, was pretty aware how not to piss them off, a talent Merle had never possessed.

In fact, when it came to how Merle would’ve approached this situation, Merle would’ve said it was a pussy thing to do in the first place—coming back for him. Merle never would’ve come back for anyone. Would’ve said it was their own damn fault, would’ve said they should look after themselves, would’ve said it weren’t his problem. Even if it were Daryl chained on a roof, Merle might’ve just left him. Merle had practically done that, when Daryl was a kid.

But life wasn’t always every man out for himself. Daryl knew that because he was here, and Rick was here, even if the punk still deserved to die for leaving Merle in the first place, and Glenn and T-Dog were here. Even if none of them were here for Merle, Daryl could still use them. Daryl was the one with the advantage, because he was not alone. He could be mad later, avenge Merle getting left behind after he was fucking found, ditch these folks after they outlived their usefulness.

Daryl didn’t need to be Merle to come out on top with this. Didn’t need to shout, try to push people around, punch his way through. Daryl could do this Daryl’s way, use his own skills.

Keep a level head, Rick had said.

After that, observations felt less like pieces of glass cutting into him. Rather, they were things Daryl noticed, glinting in the dirt. Some of them were dull, but he picked them up, wiped them off. Made them clean and precise, things he could use to build something, a picture of how to find Merle.

The rope inside no longer had that soft, frayed end. The part was gone, leaving behind something tight, as though the fibers of the rope had been melted together. As though it’d been burned. As though when Merle had used that iron on the grill to cauterize his stump of an arm he’d cauterized Daryl as well, making it not bleed but leaving a limb still there, unattached. Looking for something.

*

**Rick, observations**

1\. Handsy. Already shoved Daryl around as much as Merle did and Daryl had only known the punk a day. 

2\. Kind of a pussy. Wanted to go to those Hispanics that took Glenn and fucking talk, when they probably had Merle and might kill Glenn. 

3\. But not a coward. Rick had pushed Daryl around to control him and had drawn his gun when other options failed. So being a pussy and being pushy went hand-in-hand: Rick was a pussy until he thought there wasn’t another way, then he got up in your face.

That was okay. Keep a level head, that was what Rick had said, and it made sense not to use your fists first if you were weaker. 

4\. Reliable. He’d come back for Merle, and when Glenn got took Rick went after him too.

5\. Goddamn cowboy. Said he wouldn’t leave Glenn behind because Glenn had saved him. Life debt or some shit. Fucking dumb. Fucking impractical, and this was the same idiot that’d told Daryl to keep a level head.

6\. Kinda cagey. Unexpectedly so, for someone who acted so self-righteous. Rick had first said he was coming back to town to get Merle, but then he’d revealed that the guns were here. Then he’d revealed that a walkie talkie was with the guns.

Truth doled out one bit of time. As needed. Adding layers for Lori and Shane, just as much as was needed to convince them he should go. Hadn’t seen the need to lay it all out up front—not necessarily as though he had something to hide, more as though he only used things according to their function. When Daryl thought about it he realized Rick’s use of force was the same way: didn’t use it at first because he didn’t need to.

No extra, with Rick. No excess, only what was necessary. Efficient. Succinct. Lean, clean-cut, precise, just like he was in his uniform. 

7\. Spare was the word for that, and Rick was like that in everything, really. Way he acted, things he said, even the way he moved: just never any extra. Nothing for show, like Shane and Merle—loud and waving their arms and wanting the whole world to pay attention. Rick was kinda quiet. 

Weird for a lawman.

8\. Clever. Put T-Dog up on that rooftop for the first meeting with the vatos, sniper-like. Second meeting with the vatos didn’t seem like much of a plan—walk right into the hornets’ nest with loaded guns. But the magic of that plan was that Rick was calling Guillermo’s bluff, betting on the logic of the situation: that Guillermo wouldn’t be willing to risk it. 

Glenn’s plan to get the guns had been firmly rooted in logistics. Rick’s plan was rooted in people, the way they worked. Both a them were pretty good plans.

9\. Rick was fucking lucky too though. 

10\. Bleeding heart. Lowered his weapon when the abuela ended the standoff between Rick and Guillermo's crew. Daryl wondered whether anyone else noticed that. It was a stupid thing to do. But Daryl considered it valuable information: Rick’s commitment to acting like a dumbass cartoon character was so full-bodied that he’d lower his gun in a room full of guns, just because he saw a lil’ ole lady.

11\. Fair. Fucking crock, though, being fair—world wasn’t fair; Rick was just stupid. Gave those fuckers half the guns.

12\. Just. Not that there was justice in the world neither, but Rick had seen those old folks and that had ended the whole affair, like janitors taking care of geriatrics made them immune or some shit. Still though, that particular bit of justice or compassion or whatever seemed to have far larger of an effect on Guillermo than pointing a gun in his face ever had, and that was a kind of cleverness in and of itself.

13\. Foolhardy, though. Shouldn’t’ve given up all those guns.

14\. Motherfucking asshole. He’d still cuffed Merle to a roof, and Daryl was gonna have to deal with how to take his vengeance after this—preferably after he found Merle. What with Merle stealing the van and all, Daryl guessed it’d have to wait.

*

**Glenn, observations**

1\. Smart.

2\. Really fucking smart.

3\. Like, some mastermind type stuff.

4\. His plan had _contingencies_.

5\. Pizza delivery boy.

6\. Balls of fucking steel.

7\. Korean.

Later, when Daryl finally had a bit of time to lay these pieces out and consider them, he realized most of them had to do with him being wrong.

First of all, he’d thought of Glenn as slippery on account of him being Chinese. But the plan to get the guns back in Atlanta wasn’t slippery; it was smart. Those smarts were probably why Glenn had been able to get so much stuff and bring it back to camp—the corn and the Jell-O and that doll for that girl. Glenn thought things through and understood things like lay-outs, back-up plans, routes and re-routes, angles. That was cunning, but not deception. 

It was just plain intelligence, was what it was. No wonder Daryl hadn’t recognized it at first. He’d never been the sharpest tool in the shed.

Once he’d started to get an inkling of it however, he’d asked Glenn what he’d used to do, thinking it was probably some of that tech industry bullshit. Glenn’s answer had proved him wrong again. Daryl should have been able to take away some life lesson like _you can’t tell a book by its cover_ , but that was bullshit on account of Daryl already knew that. Had known it all his life.

How often, in Daryl’s time here on Earth, had people made assumptions about him on account of the way he talked? Way he looked? On account of his tattoos, the fact he could hunt, or his dumb brother? Man, most those assumption were true. Daryl was ignorant. He was a redneck hick. He did drink and do drugs, he did have a warped, fucked up family and childhood, he was uncouth and uncultured. And he was a racist too. Just like Merle.

When Daryl thought about some Korean kid going door to door with his pizzas, he thought about the assumptions people must have made: that Glenn was just some immigrant. There to service them. Wait on them, run their errands, deliver their food. They had no idea, the shit Glenn could do. 

All of that was bullshit. No one had known anything about anybody; those people had been so full of shit. Stuck up and privileged and full of shit. And Daryl himself had been full of shit, because none of that shit really mattered. What mattered was an ability to survive and that was what Glenn had, at least for the time being. At least more than those fuckers always buying pizza and getting it brought to their fucking door, like fucking royalty, unable to fucking serve themselves.

There were no countries now, races, nationality. 

Everyone might as well be Chinese. 

Glenn was still a fruitcake, though. 

When they got into the sp—Hispanics’, Latinos’—building Glenn was untied. Worried about Gilbert, the old man who had stopped breathing, the same Gilbert who’d caused the old abuela to enter the scene and break up the showdown at the O.K. Corral. Glenn probably could’ve gotten away in the hubbub the vatos were making over Gilbert, but he hadn’t. He’d stayed and tried to help.

8\. Not that smart after all. But sweet. Like Rick—stupid.

Later, after they’d gotten back to the quarry, fought against the undead and the next morning, began to dispose of corpses, Daryl had the same thought again: Glenn was too soft. Glenn wanted to bury their dead when really they should just burn them all.

But Daryl did what Glenn said anyway.

*

**Carol, observations**

When Daryl got to Ed’s body he wasn’t glad about it, even if he wasn’t exactly put out neither. Didn’t feel like justice, the fact that Ed was dead. Daryl might wish fate had been the reason Ed died, but it’d just been a freak accident. This whole apocalypse was an accident.

Daryl hefted the pickax, but Carol asked to do it. Daryl couldn’t help feeling surprised. Confused, a little. 

Maybe she wasn’t gonna do it. Maybe she was gonna sit there crying like Andrea.

Daryl gave her the pickax anyway.

And when Carol started bashing that motherfucker’s skull Daryl stood and watched her, trying to figure something out. Carol cried like Andrea, but she also bashed that skull over and over again. Did it till that mother’s brains were all over the grass.

Weren’t that Daryl didn’t know what Carol was feeling. Knew all too well. He was just trying to figure . . . would Ma have done that? Were she ever the type?

If it were Pop laid out like that. 

Ma would’ve been too drunk, most the time. Didn’t care enough to get that angry. Or that sad. Didn’t care about nothing, hadn’t had feelings on it one way or another. 

Had she?

But the circumstances were so different. Maybe Ma would’ve done this, if Pop would’ve died his own self, and if there’d been a threat of him coming back again. Because Carol wouldn’t’ve done this without an apocalypse—would she?

Would Daryl?

Daryl didn’t know. Couldn’t tell. 

If that were Pop.

Daryl had never bashed anyone’s skull in, not before walkers. He got angry enough, sure, but he never felt like he could hold onto it. Sometimes he felt like he was chasing it, just trying to be angry because that’s what Merle did, how Merle handled things. Even when they’d cuffed his brother to a roof, though—had Daryl really been angry? 

He’d tried to lunge at Rick when he’d first found out, but Shane had stopped him with that chokehold, and Daryl had cooled down in a matter of moments. Still furious, yet not really wanting to attack any more. 

Same thing happened on the roof when he’d pulled his bow on T-Dog and Rick had held the gun up to his head. Daryl hadn’t stopped on account of the gun; he’d stopped on account of he couldn’t hold onto it any more. Couldn’t hold on to nothing, couldn’t feel it, the rage inside—only felt that emptiness, that broken rope.

Daryl watched the bloody pulp ooze from the broken skull and could not figure it out. Would he have done what Carol did to her husband to his own father, after he were dead? Would he have cried while doing it?

Carol’s daughter’s name was Sophia. Daryl had known her name all along, just never thought before this to think of her as anything other than some little girl.

Merle always did used to say Daryl cried too much when he was a kid.

* 

**Tribal instincts**

Rick’s plan to go the CDC was fucking stupid and everyone fucking knew it. But Daryl looked around the low campfire that night and knew that almost everyone, if not all, were gonna go. 

Weird fucking thing, tangle of reasons. Some of them had to do with personal connections:

Lori was going because that was her husband.

Carl was going because that was his father.

Shane was going because that was his friend and he was fucking said friend’s wife.

Some of it had to do with grief, and grieving people were more likely to go with the flow:

Andrea had just lost her sister.

Carol had just lost her husband.

Sophia had just lost her father.

Some of it had to do with that fact they didn’t have anything better to do:

Jim was dead anyway.

But some of it—Glenn, Dale, T-Dog—had to do with something else, something Daryl had noticed and acknowledged when he’d tried to kill Jim: tribalism.

Back in history, people made packs first, like animals. Wasn’t a conscious choice. Probably didn’t even realize they were doing it for the most part. Just went with it because it was to their advantage: hunting together, you got more food. Sleeping together, you were protected. That sort of thing. 

In that sort of situation the weakest link got broken. Someone didn’t cooperate, was weak, or frail, or sick, you left them behind or you put them down. Some animals even did that with their young. 

When Jacqui found out Jim had got bit, Daryl was prepared to take out the weakest link. Jim was dead anyway and furthermore a threat to the group. If everyone had been acting in their own interest, just like Merle always said they should, they all would’ve agreed.

Instead Rick pulled a gun on him (again). And then there proceeded a fucking debate. 

This weren’t a pack. It was a tribe. 

Idea of tribes wasn’t to keep individual members alive but to keep community alive. Preserve the idea of the thing. In a tribe you didn’t put down the weakest link. You punished them and tried to reform them if they were bad; you nursed them if they were sick; you took care of them if they were old or young. Caring for those links could make a group weaker short term. Long term, it made it stronger, because everybody had a place and everybody got took care of in the end. Even when they were sick. 

Even if they were bad. 

In a pack the leader was just the strongest; they could take out anyone who disagreed. But a tribe couldn’t be led by force alone. Daryl couldn’t go through with putting down Jim unless the others agreed. Couldn’t burn all the dead unless everyone was okay with it. Needed a fucking consensus. The leader of a tribe wasn’t the strongest one. It was the one who could get the most buy-in.

Rick didn’t ask for it. Didn’t even try for it, didn’t seem to want it once he had it. His leadership skills certainly didn’t get it for him. Wasn’t even those other things Daryl had noticed about Rick: his efficiency, willingness to use force, honor, sense of justice, generosity. 

Shane was just as much of a golden boy as Rick, if people were hankering for someone to look up to. Shane was strong and brave, would sacrifice himself to save a family that wasn’t his. May’ve banged his best friend’s wife but he’d thought his best friend was dead, and went back to being that man’s best friend when he found out Rick was alive. And even if Shane wanted to do things different than Rick, he still had that abstract sense of justice—wanting to bury the dead, not letting Daryl kill Jim. Both of those two were hellbent on doing the “right” thing, as though there were a right thing now that the world as over—as though there had ever been a right thing to begin with. 

So people going with Rick in the end wasn’t about Rick being the best man among them; he wasn’t. And it wasn’t about Rick being a natural born leader; he wasn’t.

It was about conviction.

Rick had acted this way going back to get Merle. Lori had scolded and pleaded. Shane had argued and yelled. Carl had cried and begged. Nothing had changed Rick’s mind. Fucker was goddamn stubborn, was what he was.

Daryl understood now that Glenn hadn’t gone with Rick that time because he had a thing for Rick as well. He’d said yes because Rick hadn’t hemmed or hawed. Hadn’t tried to convince. In Rick’s mind Glenn was already with him.

In a world of uncertainty, someone who acted like they knew what was going to happen held more power than anyone else.

People like Shane, they wanted to act like it. Shane kept saying he knew what would happen, but he was trying to convince everyone without the follow-through: he didn’t seem to have it in him to go it alone if no one went his way.

With Rick it simply didn’t matter. He’d go to the CDC whether anyone was with him or not.

And tribes, they were about believing in something, the idea of the thing. In a pack you stuck together to survive; you only made moves that meant food or shelter or strength for the good of the group; you never acted on anything but that. A tribe was about something bigger. A tribe was about hope.

Daryl had never had a tribe. He’d only ever had Merle.

*

**Andrea, observations**

Andrea sat by Amy’s grave while everyone else packed. Dale’d been dicking around over by her most the day, but he’d finally left her alone.

Daryl had already packed up all his shit. Wasn’t a fan of standing there cooling his heels, and not like he was gonna help anyone else. Not like they’d want him to—Shane had probably warned everyone Daryl was gonna rob them.

After a half hour of watching the sheeple, Daryl reckoned he’d just go check the graves. He still thought it was stupid not to burn them all, but if they’d missed anything he’d see it when he checked. That was the only reason he was going up on that hill.

Daryl’d been afraid Andrea might be crying or some shit, but she was just sitting there. 

He knew what you say on an occasion like this. _Sorry for your loss._ That was what they’d said at Pop’s funeral, over and over: _sorry for your loss. Sorry for your loss. Sorry for your loss_. Daryl remembered thinking he hadn’t lost nothing; Pop was lying right there. In the ground. Covered in dirt. Best place for him, really. Daryl didn’t have to keep track no more.

 _Sorry for your loss_ , you were supposed to say, but Daryl never cared about things you were supposed to do and anyway, he wasn’t really sorry. Wasn’t his problem, as Merle would have pointed out. So instead he just stood there.

“We’re all going to die,” Andrea said. She just kept looking at the grave.

“Yeah,” Daryl said, starting to walk away.

“Sorry for your loss,” Andrea said.

Daryl stopped.

“He was an asshole,” Andrea went on, “but he was still your brother.”

“He ain’t lost,” Daryl snapped. “Gonna find him.”

“What, at the CDC?” Andrea made a sound, something like a laugh. “I thought we left Merle behind, but we didn’t. He left us behind. We’re the ones chained.”

If Amy had been a boat, Andrea would be the dock. All that had happened was that boat had floated away.

“You're the one still here,” was all Daryl said.

“Right. And I can’t exactly cut off my hand to get out of it.”

Daryl looked down at the grave.

“We’d caught some fish,” Andrea said. 

You lose a boat, the dock still stands. The boat, meanwhile, lists away. Eventually springs a leak. Sinks down, down, down into that still water. No one ever sees it again except the fish you used to catch.

“Sorry,” Daryl said finally. It didn’t seem to be enough. After moment he added, “For your loss.”

Andrea looked down at the ground, her expression empty, just like an unfilled grave. 

Daryl thought maybe he should say more, but couldn’t think what.

When Andrea looked back up, squinting in the sun, she said, “You’re really gonna look for him? Merle?”

“What else I gonna do at the CDC? Paint a portrait?”

“You care about him.” Andrea stood up, wiping her hands on her jeans. “He’s your brother.” She glanced back down at the grave. “I get that.”

“Yeah.” Daryl glanced down at it too. “He ain’t never gave me no mermaid necklace though.”

“She used to want to be a mermaid.” Andrea smiled faintly. “She'd swim and I'd watch her from the shore.”

Andrea turned and walked away.

Daryl wondered whether Merle ever thought of it like that: standing on a shore, watching Daryl learn to swim.

Yeah. Merle would be okay.

*

**CDC**

When Jenner said there was food the group invaded the storeroom like a plague of locusts. 

“We can cook with this,” Carol said at some point.

Daryl didn’t know what she was looking at. He was busy. There was peanut butter.

“Is there a kitchen?” Lori.

Jenner made some reply, then Carol: “Is there a table?”

Lori and Carol got organized after that, made the kids, Andrea and Jacqui set a table, made others carry food from the storage rooms into the kitchen where some of them got cooking. Apparently T-Dog thought himself a chef. Whatever, man.

Then Jenner told them there was wine.

The dinner was a regular sit-down thing, all at one table. Daryl had been to plenty of do’s, or if not plenty at least a few. He was a hick, right; that’s what hicks did—had bigass families and went hunting, tailgate parties with coolers full of beer, BBQs with sports and swimming and sunburn. The Dixons didn’t do it like that, but at least Daryl’d been to big meals before.

They were nothing like this, with everyone all at one table like this, wineglasses. Napkins. Silverware.

Someone had set a place for him.

Daryl looked at the chair and didn’t even know what to do about it. This wasn’t his family. This wasn’t a damn Thankgiving. This was fucking Armaggedon, and these were just people he was using to maybe get by. Possibly find Merle, or if not, kick Rick’s ass for leaving Merle on that roof. Daryl was probably still going to jack all this group’s shit eventually, no point in sticking around.

And who were they fooling? Drinking from wine glasses, like it was some fancy party, white tablecloth. Fucking Andrea and Jacqui started talking about the vintage, said it weren’t good wine, like they were the kinda rich pussies who drank wine and spat it out—just to taste, like in a movie. Hell, probably they were. Andrea’d been a lawyer. Jacqui a city planner. Probably had insurance and diamonds and Daryl didn’t know, fancy ass dishwashers and Kitchen Aide Mixers. These weren’t Daryl’s people.

And yet they’d set a place for him. 

Daryl grabbed the wine because he didn’t know what else to do, went around and started pouring out glasses. At least it was something a little bit familiar—those few times the Dixons had had a cookout Daryl had taken beers from the cooler around to his uncles. 

When that was done he grabbed his own bottle—because he wasn’t above liquor but he certainly wasn’t gonna drink from one of those pansyass wine glasses—and sat down. Whatever else, he could drink and eat as well as the next person.

Didn’t feel right, though. Sitting down at a table. Not with these people. Not with this many people. Soon as Daryl was done eating he was up again, filling wine glasses. 

Glenn was up too. Maybe his family didn’t do Thanksgiving, being Korean. Maybe wine glasses were different for him too—did Asian people even drink wine? Maybe Glenn felt just as out of place. Daryl felt a tightness in his chest, thinking about that, and for the first time since getting to the CDC, thought about his severed rope.

The rope was still there. Lying there inside him, broken and useless. And yet it didn’t feel as though it were dragging through the water any more. Didn’t feel like it was lying among shards of glass neither. Instead when Daryl thought about what it looked like—a thought induced by maybe too much of that wine—he thought about a beach. 

Not a clean beach, but not a trashy tourist beach neither. One of them abandoned beaches, the ones with things like old boat planks, still got nails in them. Driftwood, worn soft and gray by water. Broken shells and beach glass, an old oar, a rusty pail. Dusty bottles, empty and scraped raw.

That was all of them, Daryl realized. He was on a beach with all of them, and they were all washed up. Battered by the waves, left out in the weather, rained on and bleached of color. But they were all there: Shane. Jacqui. Carol, Sophia, Lori, Carl. Rick. Dale, Andrea, Glenn, T-Dog. Even Jenner.

Not Amy. Not Merle.

But for the first time Daryl thought maybe he wasn’t going to sink.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on tumblr @letteredlettered. Drop me a line; I need to follow more TWD folks.


End file.
